


What a lovely way to burn

by TooRational



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, Daryl Dixon loves Paul "Jesus" Rovia, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fever, First Kiss, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Nightmares, Paul "Jesus" Rovia loves Daryl Dixon, Protective Daryl Dixon, Sick Character, Sleepy Cuddles, Worried Daryl Dixon, brief homophobic OC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-08 21:51:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12873750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/pseuds/TooRational
Summary: "Daryl," Jesus says in a weird tone, and Daryl turns around just in time to see his eyes roll back in his head. The split second of surprise and indecision is all it takes, and Jesus crumples to the floor silently, unnaturally still.Or: 13k of every single headcanon I could fit into one fic, in three parts.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is such a self-indulgent fic, people, but I regret nothing. ♥
> 
> Rating for language and the general apocalypse thingy.
> 
> I apologize for the title, I'm shit at naming things. (I was constantly thinking of Fever by Peggy Lee while I was writing, this came up when I googled the lyrics.)

"Daryl," Jesus says in a weird tone, and Daryl turns around just in time to see his eyes roll back in his head. The split second of surprise and indecision is all it takes, and Jesus crumples to the floor silently, unnaturally still.

Daryl's heart drops along with his pack and crossbow and he's at Jesus' side in three large strides, cursing himself for not paying more attention to the man. He should have reached for him, he knows, but Daryl trained himself long ago not to reach for people and it's still difficult sometimes, even with his family. That goes double for Jesus because he's... It's...

Well, just because.

Dammit, he should've known something was wrong. It's plain unnatural for Jesus not to talk when they're on a run. He _always_ talks, at least a little, keeps trying to trick Daryl into participating in weird conversations. Daryl knows that and he still ignored it, focusing on the path through the woods, the animal tracks, the small town that might or might not be abandoned (and that 'might not be' scenario is why they're sneaking and not just driving in) -- anything and everything that isn't Jesus himself.

"Hey," Daryl rasps, slapping Jesus' cheek lightly, "Hey, wake up, c'mon." Jesus is burning hot to the touch, a rosy flush high on his cheekbones the only color in his otherwise pale and sweaty face.

" _Shit._ Jesus, wake up, man, this ain't funny."

Jesus stirs and groans after a few very long moments, to Daryl's profound and frankly embarrassing relief, but it's a short-lived victory. As soon as he opens his eyes and focuses on Daryl, looming above him with a frown, Jesus _freaks_.

He pushes Daryl away with both hands and surprising strength, panting hard from the exertion, and scrambles back until his back hits a fallen log.

"What the-- who are you? Where am I?" Jesus gasps out, too bright eyes darting everywhere but always keeping Daryl in his line of sight.

A dumb "Daryl" is all Daryl can come up with in face of the rising wave of panic that's threatening to drown him.

_Shit shit shit_ , this could be really bad. If Jesus doesn't remember him and thinks he's a threat he could just take off. There's no way Daryl can stop Jesus from going anywhere, even a feverish, not-in-top-condition Jesus. Not without using more force than he wants to, which is out of the question. And if he runs into walkers and doesn't remember them, or passes out somewhere deep in the woods...

"Daryl?" Jesus repeats blankly, but at least it looks like the name gives him pause.

"Yeah, Daryl. 'Member me, ya little prick?" Daryl tries, hoping the familiar insult will jolt Jesus' memory. "Makin' me chase you 'round a field?" Daryl sits up a little and rests his arms on his knees but doesn't dare move any closer.

Luck is, for fucking once, on his side because Jesus breathes out " _Daryl_ " and slumps, all tension leaking out of him. "I 'member," he slurs, eyes at half-mast and rapidly losing focus.

"Hey, _hey_ , no, no, no, stop that," Daryl rambles, scrambling quickly toward Jesus, already starting to hate this pattern.

Jesus lifts his eyelids with what looks like supreme effort and says, "Stop what?"

"Stop lyin' around, we gotta go, get up." Maybe if he makes it a command and not a question, Jesus will listen.

Right, and mayhap pigs can fly.

"'kay," Jesus nods amiably with eyes closed, not moving a muscle.

"Fuck," Daryl says under his breath, then louder, "I'm gonna help you up, c'mon."

Jesus whimpers in pain when Daryl pulls him to his feet, clinging to Daryl's collar with clumsy fingers. His shaky legs barely support him, the tremor in his limbs strong enough for Daryl to feel through several layers of clothing on both of them.

Daryl leans Jesus carefully against the nearest tree trunk and starts patting him down, trying to see if the problem is just a cold or a virus, or something much more serious. A groan and a flinch when he touches Jesus' leg give him a clue, and he finds a small gash on Jesus' outer left thigh, no longer than three inches and fairly shallow but looking red and inflamed.

_Shit._

"Yeah, we gotta get back to the Hilltop, _now_."

~*~

Getting back to the Hilltop is easier said than done. First they have to trek back through the forest for about three miles, give-or-take, with Jesus barely able to stand on his feet, and then there's the two-hour car ride. And Daryl can't even remember if Doctor Carson is at the Hilltop right now or if he's visiting Alexandria, since Judith has been cranky lately, crying a lot without apparent reason.

Somewhere in the back of Daryl's mind there's an anxious voice saying 'you won't make it, he's gonna die, the doc won't help any' and Daryl shuts it down firmly.

There is no fucking way Paul _fucking_ Rovia is dying, not on Daryl's watch.

~*~

"Hey, Daryl," Jesus says, concentrating so hard on walking and staying upright it's almost funny. Almost, but not, because there's nothing even remotely funny about this situation. It's complete shit and it can't be over fast enough.

"Yeah?" Daryl says, trying to distract himself from his thoughts. He has an arm around Jesus' waist, supporting his weight and steering them in the right direction, while Jesus' arm is hooked around Daryl's shoulders, face close enough that Jesus' signature beanie rubs against Daryl's temple every so often.

"You're so nice. Did you know that?" Jesus says, smiling up at him. His breathing is heavy, he's trembling from the effort of simply walking, but he still has enough energy to be a little shit.

"Shut up and walk," Daryl says with an eye roll.

~*~

About twenty minutes later, Jesus breaks the silence again.

"Hey."

"What?"

"You're so hot."

_What?_

"What?" Daryl frowns, not following.

"I said you're hot. Y'know, handsome, nice to look at. What's your name?"

An icy chill spreads through Daryl's veins as he stares at Jesus' wide-eyed, expectant face.

_Shit shit shit._

He doesn't reply, just picks up the pace.

~*~

The car is at the side of the road where they left it, covered in branches as a precaution. Daryl makes short work of the camouflage and they're driving off in less than a minute, Jesus settled against the window of the passenger seat, wrapped up in an old blanket they had stashed in the trunk.

"Daryl," Jesus says with obvious effort, teeth chattering, "If anything happens..."

" _Shut up_ ," Daryl growls, not wanting to talk about it, think about it, hear Jesus' _stupid_ death speech or whatever this is. He has enough last words in his head, never to be forgotten, he doesn't need another set.

" _If anything happens_ , I want you to know you did everything you could. I don't blame you. You're a good man and I was lucky to meet you, to have you as a friend. _Thank you_." The last words are a whisper, sincere and heartfelt, and Daryl looks into more-green-than-blue-today eyes and finds only softness and compassion.

He doesn't reply, can't, just presses the gas pedal harder.

It's the last coherent thing Jesus says for a long time.

~*~

"'M sorry, I really am, you're hot and all, but I can't. I don't wanna lead you on. It can't happen, nuh uh. There's someone else."

"Yeah, ok, fine," Daryl grits out, squeezing the wheel until it squeaks. He tried ignoring the latest topic of feverish babbling for about ten minutes now but Jesus just gets upset if he doesn't respond, grows loud and insistent. So now Daryl is trying the 'agree to everything he says' approach.

It _sucks_. He really thought he was ok with Jesus having relationships and lovers, past and current, since Daryl himself certainly wasn't doing anything about his... whatever. Maybe, _possibly_ having some feelings. About Jesus. _Paul._ Maybe.

But if he has to listen to Jesus wax poetic about some asshole while he's high as a kite on a fever, he's going to kill someone. Or something. Himself, probably. There's a limit to what Daryl can take when it comes to this thing with Jesus, and this is it, he found it. Limit definitely, without a doubt _found_.

"'S Daryl."

" _What,_ " Daryl snaps, wondering how the fuck can someone who is basically two steps away from dying still _talk so fucking much_.

"Daryl. You know Daryl? _Daryl._ He's so nice. And sweet. And he's so hot, maaaaan, have you seen him? _So_ gorgeous," Jesus smiles dopily at the window.

_....what?_

"I kinda love 'im," Jesus mutters, oblivious to the shock coursing through the man sitting next to him, "But shhh, don't tell 'im, he'll run away."

And he promptly passes out again.

...

_Holy shit._

~*~

Arriving at Hilltop after three hours of agony is both incredibly reassuring -- the doc is there! other people, too! -- and completely useless.

Yes, Jesus has an infection, that's what caused the fever. It's probably a few days old, and it's possible he didn't even notice the cut. Yes, there's medicine right there that the doc can give him, and he will do so immediately. No, there's nothing else to do now but wait. We'll know more in the morning.

Daryl wants to pull his hair out by the roots. Not only did the tiny ninja have the nerve to drop a bomb on him while his brain was basically cooking in his skull, he doesn't even know he did it. ( _How the fuck_ does Daryl ignore this? How does he _bring it up_ , he can't do that, either! _What the hell does he do now?_ )

And Daryl can't even go away and process this shit. He wants to, so bad, he just... can't bring himself to leave the medical trailer with Jesus looking so small and drained in the hospital bed, twitching in his sleep every once in a while under the sheet and threadbare blanket he's covered with.

"I'll keep an eye on 'im," Daryl tells Doctor Carson when he sees the man nodding off at his desk.

"You sure?" the doc says, rubbing his eyes, obviously dead on his feet.

"Yeah, I'll stay. Go on, see ya tomorrow," Daryl nods, worrying at his lip.

"Thank you," the doc says gratefully. "There's not much you can do for him, just give him some water to drink if he wakes up. Try to keep him calm and get him to rest if he starts acting up again. That's all, the next dose of his medicine is due tomorrow morning."

Daryl nods again, the instructions easy enough to remember, and in less than a minute there's only Paul and him in the trailer. He takes off his vest and boots, drags a chair over and sits down heavily, lifting aching legs on Paul's bed. His entire body hurts, muscles that were locked tight and tense for way too long slowly relaxing. He's too exhausted to think, mind point-blank refusing to process anything anymore, so he just gives up and closes his eyes.

Maybe this is it, they made it, they're safe until the morning. The doc will check Paul out tomorrow, and he'll get better, and this entire fucking day will be like a bad dream, like it never even happened.

Daryl can only hope.

~*~

An hour later, the nightmares start.

~*~

"Nonononononononono," Paul repeats in a steady stream, voice rising, and Daryl jolts hard out of his nap, heart pounding.

He sits up and hovers but doesn't dare touch Paul. Violent awakenings are the norm now, even more so after the war, and the more skills people have, the more dangerous it is to try to wake them up. Waking up Paul could be _a tiny bit_ suicidal.

With no other choice available, Daryl rambles. "Hey, Paul, 's okay, you're ok, 's just a dream. Just a dream, c'mon now, no need to fret."

Paul doesn't react, doesn't seem to hear, just babbles 'no' endlessly, anxiously. Daryl tries laying a careful hand on Paul's bicep and it's a bad, _bad move_ , Paul shutting up but snatching his fingers immediately and starting to twist them in the wrong direction. The only thing that saves Daryl from having to splint broken digits is a quick retreat of all limbs from Paul's vicinity.

Daryl's frustration boils over. "Dammit, ya little prick, 'm just tryin' to help! Cut it out!"

Paul is still breathing rapidly but he's silent now, a confused frown wrinkling his forehead.

The guilt over snapping rushes in, immediate and overwhelming. Paul didn't ask for this. He's sick, has a high enough fever to need medication, he has no idea what he's doing. And it certainly isn't his fault that he's plagued by nightmares. Not in these times, and certainly not with all his burdens and his history. Daryl doesn't know much about it, but he's sure growing up in a group home wasn't a fucking picnic.

And much as he hates this, as much trouble this entire day and Paul himself has been, Daryl can't regret being here. Paul needs someone to watch his back, now more than ever. Daryl is more than willing to do it.

"It's just a dream, go back to sleep. 'M right here," Daryl says, exhausted, as gently as he can manage.

It seems to work this time, the words reaching Paul now that he can actually hear them. Inside two minutes, the little ninja is sleeping quietly again.

~*~

" _No_ , nonononono, please don't, please don't, don't, don't..." Paul's rambling trails off into hopeless whimpers and Daryl freezes in horror, hoping, _praying_ this isn't what it sounds like. He selfishly wishes he can snap Paul out of the nightmare and not hear another word because he doesn't want to know, he really doesn't, he _can't take it_.

"Don't rip it, no, no, it's mine, it's mine, don't."

Boneless with relief (the prick has a nightmare over ripping a freaking _book_ \-- oh, why is this a surprise at all, Paul would probably cry his eyes out if he ever saw that movie with the scene where they hole up in the library and burn books to survive the freezing cold), Daryl takes Paul's hand unthinkingly and squeezes. Paul inhales sharply and goes quiet, but instead of lashing out he grips the hand in his, tight like he's clutching a lifeline.

Daryl doesn't let go until they both fall asleep again.

~*~

"Don't leave me, please… No, no, no, don't, don't die, you can't, please, _please_..."

It's a desperate plea followed by a sob full of grief, and no amount of hand-holding or talking helps, not even a little. Daryl can only wait until it plays out, excruciating minutes as long as an age, heart slowly tearing into smaller and smaller pieces. It's physically painful, looking on as someone you care about suffers and being unable to do a thing about it. Might as well drop-kick his sternum and break his ribs, it'd probably hurt less. It also brings back his own memories, so many people he'd lost and mourned after, that changed his life in so many ways, and Daryl concentrates on breathing slow and deep to stop the anxiety from taking over.

After Paul falls silent again, tear tracks drying on his cheeks, Daryl buries his head in his hands. He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, hard, until stars flash behind his eyelids, telling himself the wetness there is just exhaustion and grit.

It doesn't make him feel any better.

~*~

In the early hours of the morning Paul's fever seems to have broken, with it the worst of the nightmares retreating.

Daryl nods off in his chair occasionally but shakes himself awake each time. He can't let Paul go through this alone, it's bad enough as it is. Who knows what could happen if he wakes up and doesn't remember anything again, wanders off into the night? Daryl would never forgive himself. And he has enough weight on his shoulders and sins on his soul to carry, thanks.

As if on fucking cue, Paul snaps upright with a painful sounding gasp and bends over his knees. He keeps trying and _failing_ to draw breath into his lungs properly, wheezing and grabbing at his throat, and Daryl _panics_.

Something he's seen ages ago and thought long forgotten sparks up in his brain, and Daryl presses Paul's hands to his own chest, chanting, "C'mon, c'mon, just like me, man, feel that, look," and breathes, deep and exaggerated. He's babbling and breathing and babbling and breathing for what feels like fucking _forever_ , Jesus Christ, this day is gonna finish him off.

Finally, _finally_ , a whole breath enters Paul's lungs, then another, and another, and as soon as his brain gets enough oxygen to register it, to Daryl's horror, Paul bursts into violent sobs. He's folded over, shaking like a leaf, crying so hard he starts having trouble breathing again.

"No no no no, hey, don't, please," Daryl says, clutching Paul's hands helplessly. It seems like all he said for the past 24 hours are endless fucking variations of the words 'no', 'stop', 'please', and 'c'mon', and none of them help one bit.

_Fuck_ this day, _fuck this entire fucking day_ , Daryl's heart can't take much more of this. He hasn't the faintest idea what people do in these situations, so he does what he always wished someone would do for him.

He carefully gathers Paul into his arms, picks him up, and settles on the bed with his back to the headboard, wrapping himself up completely around the little ninja.

Hearing Paul cry -- _Paul_ , who is always so strong and composed and resilient -- is _heartbreaking_. It feels like someone is carving out Daryl's insides with a rusty fork. The sound is at once helpless, sad, and utterly lost, and it makes Daryl's own eyes well up again. He hums and rocks them both gently, one arm creating a cradle to support Paul's back, the other petting his hair and wiping tears away with calloused thumbs and scarred knuckles.

All defenses down, heart raw and stripped of its armor for the first time in months, Daryl just _gives in_. He stops fighting this new, strange emotion that's been growing inside him for months now, as unstoppable as the tide and the sun rising and setting, and finally lets himself _feel_. It's fucking terrifying, but also exhilarating, and exciting, and _really good_. It's a huge relief as well. No going back now, it's done, impossible to stuff everything back into a box and forget about it. There's a strange sort of acceptance and serenity in that thought, like the worst is over, out of his hands now.

He can't help pressing soft, lingering kisses to Paul's hair, forehead, cheek, wet eyelids, wherever he can reach, offering comfort the only way he can think of. He almost stopped after the first few, unsure if it was okay to touch Paul while he isn't all that lucid, but Paul curls closer and closer into him with every passing moment. His sobs have tapered off, the last of the tears swallowed by Daryl's already drenched flannel. Soon the trembling fades, too, and Paul's heartbeat remains steady under Daryl's palm while he's tracing Daryl's collarbone lightly.

It looks like this might be finally over. Daryl gathers the last shreds of his strength and composure and holds on to it, closing his eyes tight, refusing to cry.

"Daryl?" Paul croaks out hesitantly after an indefinite amount of time.

"Yeah?" Daryl croaks back, tightening his hold on the little ninja almost involuntarily.

"What... what happened?"

Daryl doesn't have the energy to keep his eyes open anymore, let alone deal with this entire clusterfuck on no sleep. He sighs heavily. "Tell you tomorrow."

"...okay."

Huh. That sounds uncharacteristically compliant for Paul. Then again, he had a fever and a long day he probably won't even remember the most of, he's probably exhausted as well.

Paul sighs and nuzzles his cheek against Daryl's shirt, body growing heavier in his arms, and Daryl realizes he's falling asleep. Unwilling to wake up with a backache on top of everything else, Daryl picks Paul back up and arranges them both until they're comfortably stretched out on the bed, facing each other. Paul's head is half on the pillow and half on Daryl's bicep, arm around Daryl's waist and palm resting on his shoulder blade, their legs in a tangle. It's not the best position to sleep in but Daryl can't bring himself to move an inch, not when it means moving away from Paul. If the way Paul's fingers press into Daryl's back is any indication, he'd say Paul agrees.

"Hey, Daryl?" Paul whispers a few minutes later.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

Daryl just hums, runs his fingers through Paul's hair one last time, and drifts off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Daryl wakes up in the exact same position he fell asleep in as the first rays of sunlight hit the medical trailer, muscles stiff and aching. There's no transition, just sleep one moment and the clarity of being awake the next, the last 24 hours at the forefront of his thoughts immediately.

Paul is still asleep next to him, breathing slow and deep, flush gone from his face. Daryl checks his temperature with the inside of his wrist and sighs with relief. It's more or less normal, thank god.

Everything is quiet, the Hilltop still slumbering, and Daryl finds himself watching the man beside him.

Paul looks incredibly, impossibly beautiful, even several shades paler than usual and with eyes swollen from last night's tears. It has nothing to do with his appearance, really. Daryl would think Paul is beautiful even covered in mud, or sick as a dog, or covered in scars. He's _Paul_.

Daryl can't bring himself to get up and leave, doesn't have the heart or the energy for it, so he stays. He traces Paul's features with his eyes, noticing all the little details he missed while trying so hard not to look at him, and he thinks.

He thinks about the fact that Paul said he 'kinda loved him', high on a fever and thinking he was talking to someone else. He'd like to take the easy way out, write off the sentence as feverish babbling, but he knows it's true. It's almost impossible to believe (what does Paul see in _him_?) but Daryl knows Paul. He doesn't lie, not to his friends and family.

So, yeah. Paul has feelings. For Daryl.

That takes a few minutes to sink in.

Daryl then thinks about his own feelings, how they snuck up on him and then hit him over the head, changing and intensifying so quickly that he's actually in bed with Paul today and _not_ freaking out, when yesterday he could barely look at the man without wanting to run away. He should be used to sudden changes and world-shattering shifts by now, he survived the apocalypse after all, but it still baffles him. Sometimes, your own brain and heart is the most foreign landscape there is.

He thinks about his old man, too, and Merle. Blood families and chosen families, Tara and Denise, Eric and Aaron, Beth, Glenn, all the heartbreak and all the people he's lost. The mere possibility of losing Paul is a knife to the heart already and Daryl moves on quickly.

He considers staying away from Paul, sparing them both the inevitable pain that is loving and losing someone in these times, but he doesn't think he could pull it off. He'd stay close to keep Paul safe, have his back, regardless of the fact that Paul doesn't really need protection. And being unable to touch him when he knows it would be welcomed -- _wanted_ , even -- would be pure hell.

No, that's definitely out.

Which leaves only one option, really. They… get together. Date, or something.

Daryl can't really picture it. What does it even mean, to be together, to _date_ , in this world? There's no place to go out _to_ , no way to communicate unless by letters or in person, and living in different communities means seeing each other maybe once or twice a month. And they'll, what, be 'boyfriends'? Daryl frowns instinctively. No one in the entire _world_ would look at him and think 'yep, that's someone's boyfriend'. _Boyfriend_ \-- they aren't sixteen, for cryin' out loud!

Daryl huffs out a frustrated breath and hears a responding exhale of amusement.

_Oh._

Heart speeding up, he looks down and finds Paul looking back at him with a small smile on his face.

"Hey," Paul whispers, not moving an inch, boneless with sleepy relaxation.

"Hey. How you feelin'?"

"I'm fine. A bit tired."

Daryl nods stupidly, biting his lip. Paul just keeps looking at him with a smirk, not helping at all, the little shit.

"You, uh… remember anythin'? From yesterday?"

Paul's smirk turns into a confused frown, eyes losing focus. "Some of it. I remember you shaking me awake, helping me through the woods, starting the car… Doctor Carson asking some questions. And then… you… holding me and… humming?" The last sentence is said hesitantly, as if Paul is checking if he hallucinated the entire thing. As if it's too good to be true.

Daryl nods and says "Yeah", like that explains anything.

A slightly awkward silence ensues, Daryl trying to find a way to move the conversation forward and failing miserably. He's not the motor mouth of the group, he'd never said a word if he didn't absolutely have to in his life. How do people even do this? Do they just open their mouth and wait for stuff to fall out?

_Fuck._

Paul notices his frustration, because _of course_ he does. "What?" he asks curiously.

The only thing that gives Daryl courage for the words he's about to say is the fact that Paul hasn't moved an inch yet, solid and warm in his arms, fingers absently drawing random patterns on Daryl's flannel shirt.

"You, ah, yesterday, you said you 'kinda' loved me," Daryl says in a rush, eyes trained on a spot somewhere over Paul's shoulder.

There, he said it, it's done, now Paul has to deal with it. He almost sags with relief, glancing back at Paul out of the corner of his eyes.

"Oh," Paul says, eyes wide. There's a flash of panic in his eyes and Daryl freezes as a new thought occurs to him.

What if Paul didn't want him to know? Loving someone and being with them could be completely separate things. Daryl sorted everything into a nice, neat package, and he doesn't even know if Paul wants a relationship at all. What the fuck is _wrong with him_?

Paul watches him carefully for a few seconds, probably seeing everything Daryl's thinking on his stupid face, then takes a deep breath and says, "Yeah. I mean, yes, yes I do."

It's Daryl's turn to look at Paul in shock and panic.

Ohh, okay. So that's how it feels when your heart does a somersault and then continues with jumping jacks. He didn't expect Paul to be so straightforward or, or… _open_ about it.

…dammit, he's too old for this shit.

"If… if it makes you uncomfortable or anything, I'll back off," Paul says, stiffening and pulling away a little, looking wary. "I don't want… I couldn't bear if…" he trails off, swallowing visibly.

"No, um, 's fine," Daryl says with a shake of his head, trying to reassure Paul but probably failing.

Paul is back to looking at him like he's a bug under a microscope, taking in everything, making Daryl feel so uneasy it's approaching uncomfortable.

"It's fine?" he asks, as if making sure he heard correctly.

Daryl nods, biting his lip too hard and almost tasting blood.

"It's fine," Paul repeats, amused this time, and Daryl narrows his eyes at him.

"What?" he growls, willing to put up a lot from the little ninja but not him making fun. Not now.

A smile grows on Paul's face, bit by bit, until it's as wide as possible, his entire face glowing with it. Daryl has never seen him smile like that. It's mind-blowing, to think he was the cause of it.

"Nothing. Everything's fine," Paul says with raised eyebrows and mock innocent expression, smile back to normal proportions. He stretches out, toes brushing Daryl's legs, arms up over his head, body sliding temptingly against Daryl's. It's a sweet sort of torture, one Daryl doesn't know what to do with so he rolls onto his back, wincing as his muscles protest the movement.

Paul settles on his elbow above him and looks down at Daryl with soft eyes, hair hooked behind his ear. Daryl can't look away, heart loud in his ears. Nothing else exists in that moment, _no one_ else but the man in front of him, eyes light grey in the growing sunlight. Daryl realizes he'd happily spend the rest of his life tracking the way Paul's eyes change colors and hues during the day and through various emotions, and it steals the breath from his lungs. When did it come to this? _How_ did he manage to ignore a feeling this strong, this large and overwhelming? In what hidden space inside his heart did Paul build a home for himself?

The eyes he's so fascinated with draw closer as Paul leans down slowly, slow enough to give Daryl time to process and react. React how, Daryl has no idea -- his brain is completely empty. There's just Paul, filling his entire field of vision, details magnified, lips so near Daryl can almost feel the heat of them on his own. His eyes slide shut.

And in a very typical show of their luck lately, a loud voice asking something of Doctor Carter booms right in front of the trailer door, startling them both enough to sit up like deranged jack-in-the-box toys.

Paul covers his face with his hands and half-yells, half-groans incoherently into his palms, mumbling about stupid people and interruptions. He looks so adorable, all frustrated and curled up, half-hidden behind his hair, and something deep inside Daryl settles, grows silent and calm.

This doesn't have to be something scary and strange and awkward. It's just the two of them, being as they are: grumpy, and silly, and happy, and normal, only… more. They'll spend more time together, do more stuff together, stay closer to each other… Daryl wouldn't mind that. He's actually kind of looking forward to it.

He turns away to hide his smile and gets out of bed, tracking down his shoes and vest.

His good mood sours when he turns back around. Trying to give him what's probably the fifty seventh heart attack in the last 24 hours, Paul is half-way out of bed, looking for his boots.

"Oh no, you sit your ass down right now," Daryl says, pushing at his shoulders until he's lying down again and lifting his legs back into bed. Paul looks at him in bemusement.

"No, what, why?" he says, like he has _amnesia_ , the dumbass.

"'Cause you were half-dead yesterday, asshole," Daryl snaps, smothering Paul with the blanket none-too-gently.

"No I wasn't," Paul _lies_ , straight to Daryl's face, and sits up against the headboard.

"Wha- _You_ _don't even remember it_!" It's incredible, how much Paul can piss him off in less than 30 seconds. He wants to strangle the little shit, at least then he'd stay in his fucking hospital bed.

"Daryl, I feel fine and I want to go," Paul says, in the 'I'm the reasonable one, _you're_ acting strange' tone of voice that just winds Daryl up more.

"Paul," Daryl growls, hands curling into fists at his sides at the sheer frustration.

"Daryl," Paul says, looking unamused, not backing down an inch.

They stare at each other, locked in a stalemate. How can Daryl make him understand that he's still worried sick about him? That he'll never forget what Paul looked like lying on the ground in the forest, so still he might as well have been dead? That this thing they just started will only make him feel more protective, worried, scared? That he couldn't bear losing him, not after today, not _him_. He wouldn't survive it.

Unfortunately, he can't wrap Paul up in a blanket and put him somewhere safe, never to let out of his sight or outside Hilltop's walls again. And honestly, if someone even suggested something like that to _him_ , he'd laugh himself sick. They all have to contribute, one way or the other, and they're both at their best out there. Paul would probably go a little nuts if he couldn't leave every once in a while, just like Daryl himself.

Daryl sighs and caves.

" _Fine_ , good lord. But we wait for the Doc. If he okays it, I'm takin' you to your trailer."

"Thank you," Paul says, too polite, with an implied 'you couldn't stop me if you wanted to, I'm just indulging your tantrum' beneath. Daryl doesn't know when he learned the language behind Paul's words, hidden in looks and tone and body language, but he's getting the message loud and clear.

They sit in silence for a minute, one on the chair, the other on the bed. The doc will never come in, apparently, still talking to whomever it is in front of the trailer.

"I don't like infirmaries, or hospitals," Paul says quietly, looking down as he picks at his cuticles with his thumb. "I broke a few bones when I was a kid, always had to stay there alone. Wasn't fun."

Daryl looks at him through messy bangs, the way he's slumped as he avoids Daryl's eyes. He thinks Daryl will judge him, look down on him for admitting he felt alone and scared. As if Daryl sees only the Jesus persona he puts up and not the living, bloody human underneath, made even lonelier by the distance everyone thinks he wants to keep. As if Daryl himself didn't spend most of his life feeling alone and scared, and being angry about it.

"Move over," he says, rising from his chair. Paul looks up at him in surprise but moves without a word, just a touch clumsier than usual. Daryl snags a pillow and settles against the headboard next to Paul, careful not to get his dirty boots on the sheets.

There's nothing Daryl can say, really, because nothing would help. It's all in the past and talking about it now is useless. But then again, words were never his strong suit. So he takes Paul's hand gently in his, trying to convey through touch that he gets it, that he's there, that Paul isn't alone anymore. Neither of them is.

Paul entwines their fingers and grips tight.

They stay like that until the Doc comes in.

~*~

Doctor Carson says he doesn't see why Paul can't stay in his own trailer but he has to take it easy -- no runs, plenty of rest, he's got to keep the wound dry and clean, and take all the medicine Harlan gave him. That part was non-negotiable, no matter how much Paul tried to argue that there are and will be people who need it more than him.

Daryl 'helps' Paul make the short trip, meaning he hovers ready to catch him if he shows the slightest sign of falling or faltering while Paul rolls his eyes and walks a little slower than usual.

The trailer is the same as Daryl remembers it, minus some knick-knacks Maggie and Enid took with them when they moved to Barrington House. Only Paul lives here now, the occasional runner crashing on the couch if they're visiting from the Kingdom or Alexandria and everywhere else is occupied.

Silence reigns when Daryl closes the door behind him, neither of them knowing quite what to do next. They're in uncharted territory.

Paul recovers first.

"I'm gonna take a shower and change the bandage. Be right back," he says, turning away but then hesitating. "You'll be here?" he asks quietly, and Daryl's gut aches briefly with sympathy. As if he'd even think about leaving right now, wild horses couldn't drag him out. He gets distracted looking at Paul's profile, the long eyelashes, the slope of his nose, the curve of his ear peeking out from his hair. How can someone's _ear_ be cute?

"Yeah," Daryl says, a beat too late, "'m just gonna get us somethin' to eat."

Paul looks back at him and nods, a smile lurking in the corners of his eyes, then makes a beeline for the tiny bathroom in the back.

Daryl stands awkwardly for a moment before unloading his pack and crossbow near the door, deciding to first find Maggie and tell her what happened, then see if there's any breakfast available or if he'll have to scrounge something up for them himself.

He's back in the trailer within 15 minutes, Maggie sending strict orders for Paul to rest, and carrying with him a simple breakfast tray of bread, cheese, and fruit, with small cups of stale coffee. The table is set by the time Paul comes out of the bathroom in sweats and a t-shirt, hair combed but still damp.

"There's an extra toothbrush above the sink, and I left you one of the bigger t-shirts and sweats, too. If you want to change, that is," he says.

"Thanks," Daryl nods, and leaves for a quick shower of his own. The warm water is heaven, washing down a day's worth of sweat, panic and Paul's tears down the drain. Standing beneath the showerhead, running water muffling all senses, Daryl only feels a zen-like calmness mixed with a little excitement. No panic, no doubt, no second thoughts.

_Huh._

The clothes Paul left him fit more or less ok, the shirt a little tight around the shoulders. Makes sense if it's Paul's, though, the last one he borrowed was the same, when they came here from the Sanctuary. Daryl doesn't know where the man finds all these clothes anymore, he saw various pieces on Maggie, Sasha, Enid, and he himself still has at least one sweatpants, one flannel shirt and a couple of t-shirts. He'll have to raid a store on the next run, find everything that can possibly fit Paul and lug it all here. There's no point in Paul shouldering the 'cost' of all this on his own.

They eat when he comes out, Paul bumping his socked feet into Daryl's until he figures out that the little asshole is doing it on purpose, and feels the tips of his ears burn. Wait, is this what people mean when they say 'playing footsie'? What the fuck, this is ridiculous.

Daryl pretends to ignore what's going on but catches one of Paul's feet between his on the next pass, stroking the warm instep with a repetitive motion, feeling Paul's toes curl. He hides his smirk in his coffee cup.

Clean-up takes no time at all, cups and plates rinsed and stacked on the tray by the sink. Daryl stays there for a second, unsure of what to do next, turning around when Paul starts to speak.

"I'm feeling a bit tired so… I'll take a nap," Paul says, and then continues, a tiny bit rushed, "You should get some rest, too. I'm sure you haven't slept all that much last night. Sorry about that."

"Nah, 's okay," Daryl says because they're true, both of those things. Between yesterday's panic and jumping at every sound Paul made, he caught maybe a couple hours. He can function on that, sure, but his head is growing heavy, eyes gritty and sensitive. Paul must be even worse -- on top of the fever and injury, the night was a never-ending nightmare for him.

And no, he didn't mind staying with Paul. He suspects he never will.

"You want to take the couch, or should I, or…" Paul trails off, still walking on eggshells around him and Daryl feels a rush of frustration mixed with anger and impatience -- at himself, at Paul, at this entire thing. It'd be so easy to storm out now, give up and say it isn't worth the trouble, but it'd also be a coward's way out. And Daryl refuses to be a coward, not about this. Paul deserves the effort, deserves a lot more than that, and Daryl will walk on broken glass if need be. A little awkwardness is nothing.

"Nah," Daryl says, determined, takes the two steps to the door and locks it, then walks over to Paul. "Up, c'mon," he says, palm out in an unmistakable offer. Paul seems a little startled but grabs his wrist, lets Daryl tug him up.

Daryl leads them to the bed and Paul gets in first, laying on his right side near the wall, arm under his head. Daryl follows, settling on his back. He folds his arms over his stomach, lifts one leg up so his foot is on the bed, and looks at the ceiling.

A few long moments pass.

_God dammit._ What are they, roommates forced to share a bed on an overnight trip? He slept basically right on top of his family the entire time they were on the road, before the prison and again before Alexandria. This is different, sure, but not _that_ much. _Why_ is doing this so difficult? Why is Daryl being a chicken-shit again, and about something that's a sure thing in a way? Paul went in for the kiss earlier, that wasn't a damn figment of his imagination.

Fuck it.

Daryl rolls onto his side in a sudden movement, startling Paul into opening his eyes, and their gazes catch. Every single romantic movie scene Daryl ever scoffed at comes to mind, because all they need now is increasingly sappy music in the background and the setup is dead-on the same. It's ridiculous, and stupid, and Daryl still can't stop gawking. You'd think he'd get sick of it, staring at the same face for hours now, but he isn't. Paul's eyes changed color again, he notes absently, appearing a light green this time.

Paul shifts until he's a bit closer and hesitantly lifts his chin up, bringing his face so, _so_ close to Daryl's. He stops when he's inches away and it's unmistakable, what he's asking for, even to Daryl's inexperienced ass. _Shit_ , this means he'll have to move if he wants to… What if he stays frozen and ruins it? What if he's _bad at this_ and ruins it?

_Why_ is the little asshole doing this to him? He couldn't've just gotten it over with when Daryl wasn't expecting it?

Paul is still and calm through Daryl's freak-out, silently waiting for Daryl's decision. He's always been this way, always patient, always giving Daryl space to breathe, time to make a choice. Even when he's teasing and pushing, he has an almost eerie sense of where Daryl's limits are. The only thing that betrays him right now is a small hitch in his breathing, like he's controlling it with everything he's got.

_Well, at least the door is locked this time_ , is what Daryl's brain comes up with, which just comes to show he's _out of his damn mind_.

Daryl swallows, licks his lips nervously, and then carefully closes the distance between them.

It's a simple press of lips, a bit off-center and clumsy, but Daryl feels it all the way down to his toes. He pulls back a little, just enough to glance at Paul's face, to see the green of his irises darken and turn into a thin ring of color around his pupil. He comes back for another soft peck, lips catching longer, making a tiny smacking sound when they part, and another thrill rushes through his body. And again, just to check this time, and yep, there's a livewire obviously plugged into Paul's lips, this is ridiculous.

He doesn't bother pulling back anymore because why would he, there's no sense in depriving himself of something that feels _so good_. So few things in his life feel good anymore, and none of them as good as this, as _Paul_ in this moment. Daryl leans into the slide of his lips against Paul's, pressing forward helplessly because every single cell in his body is straining to get closer to him. Does it always feel like this, kissing someone? Like you won't be able to breathe if your lips aren't touching, like you sip the oxygen directly from the pliant softness?

Paul presses back against him in a wordless answer, wraps a leg around Daryl's hip and pulls him down until Daryl covers him completely, an elbow above Paul's head the only concession to unimportant things like gravity. Daryl's breath is shaky in the small space between them, trying to process the sensory overload. He can feel every breath Paul takes, cradled between Paul's hips like this, Paul's chest expanding against his with each inhale. It's incredibly strange, and scary, and _intimate_ , being so close to someone. Especially to Paul, who always hides his weak spots, who has kept everyone at a distance for years. That he trusts Daryl this much, has welcomed him so close into his space? It humbles Daryl, warms his insides and spreads out into trembling limbs.

Paul smiles at him, expression so tender it claws at Daryl's heart and leaves a permanent mark there. He runs a thumb gently across Daryl's stubbly cheek, dragging his fingertips up Daryl's jaw and into the messy hair. They kiss again, falling together almost desperately because every moment spent not touching is a moment wasted, an opportunity lost. Paul takes the lead this time and suddenly they fit better, like pieces of a puzzle clicking into place.

One of them deepens the kiss, must have done even though Daryl can't remember who, because Paul's tongue is on Daryl's upper lip, sneaking past his teeth, making Daryl's head spin. He tastes like coffee and sour apples, smells like whatever flowery shampoo and body wash they both used, and he is hands down the best thing Daryl has _ever_ tasted, smelled, or touched. Getting to do this again, getting to touch and kiss and _keep_ Paul, is rapidly becoming one of his priorities. Right below life or death decisions, even.

_Fuck_ , he's in too deep.

The slide of their bodies against each other sends a hot flush up Daryl's neck and he can't bite off a moan quick enough, panting as Paul sucks patterns on his neck. Daryl's brain catches and stutters, unable to process the storm his body is caught in. He has to do something, find something to ground himself with and fast, or else this will get very embarrassing very quickly.

A flash of inspiration makes him sneak both arms more firmly under Paul and roll onto his back, bringing the little ninja on top of him. Paul hums in surprise but is otherwise unaffected, apparently persistent in his mission of mapping every inch of Daryl's neck, face and mouth with his lips. He's at the tops of Daryl's ears now, which is a revelation because it feels amazing, but at the same time -- _what_?

This plan of his might be faulty, too; an armful of warm, squirming Paul Rovia on top of him is _not_ in any way making it easier to control his body. Through the fog enveloping his higher brain functions (hah, _higher_ brain functions -- he barely has any brain left to function at all), Daryl tries to keep in mind where the bandage is beneath Paul's sweats, accidentally hurting Paul the last thing he wants.

Daryl drags Paul back to his lips, keeps doing it every time the little ninja wanders off for longer than a minute because he can't _not_. It's like a siren goes off in his head, withdrawal starting to set in fast and vicious if their lips aren't connected. It's worse than any drug-related problem Merle ever had, and isn't that a kick in the nuts?

Paul's hair gets in the way and he flips it to one side in a practiced move, making Daryl shiver as it falls over his forearm in a heavy, slightly damp wave. This close, touch is Daryl's main source of information: his face sliding against Paul's, their bellies creating a core of searing heat together, Daryl's fingers on Paul's neck, hands on the small of Paul's back, palms on Paul's biceps, hips, thighs, ass. Daryl is high on it, this permission to touch, this unlimited body contact. He's high on _Paul_ , so precious and dear to him, being closer that anyone else has ever been. _Will ever be._

Heart so full it's about to burst out of his chest, Daryl wraps himself around Paul and burrows even closer, and kisses him again and again and again, _just because he can_.

~*~

Slowing down isn't a conscious decision, it happens gradually and all on its own. They take longer breaks between kisses, spend more time breathing each other in. They settle in bed more comfortably, Daryl on his back and Paul on his stomach at his side, an arm and a leg thrown over Daryl as if he can't bear to not touch him in some way. They let their fingers do the talking, exploring small things like the curve of Paul's eyebrow, Daryl's beauty marks, each other's fingertips and palms. They touch reverently, slowly, eyelids drooping for longer and longer, completely relaxed and at peace for the first time in forever.

And between one touch and the next, sleep claims them both again.


	3. Chapter 3

People find out about this... thing him and Paul have ('relationship, Daryl, it's a relationship, you won't lose any manly, wood-chopping points if you say the word') in fits and starts. Neither of them is big on PDA in the beginning so only the people closest to them and the most perceptive ones notice.

Maggie wins first place over Rick or Carol by sheer proximity, probably honing into some difference in their behavior around each other. (Daryl wouldn't know, most of his attention occupied by _Paul_ when he's anywhere near. And Paul is very near, a lot of the time, especially the first few weeks; and Daryl can't take his eyes off him the entire time, like Paul will disappear if he's out of Daryl's sight. It's weird but Daryl doesn't care.) Maggie is thrilled, and full of questions, and emotional, and really, _really pregnant_ , so Daryl escapes that conversation as soon as possible, Paul raising an amused eyebrow at him but staying to chat with his friend.

He tells Rick and Carol himself, Michonne and Carl and Ezekiel (and for some reason _Jerry_ ) implied and in the know almost immediately after.

The Talk with Rick is awkward and slow and agonizing, with a lot of stuttering and um-ing and er-ing. Rick ends up confused for a while because he never thought about Daryl's sexuality and kind of assumed it was either straight or nonexistent, as people do. Daryl doesn't really have the words to say 'I never cared about any of it until Paul, and now I want everything', so he doesn't. Rick says he's happy if Daryl is happy, pats his shoulder in that patent dorky Rick way, and that's the only thing that matters anyway. He later takes to making stupid dad-jokes and saying things like 'where's the old ball and chain' when asking about Paul. Daryl almost prefers the horrible music he tortures him with to those, because Rick's jokes _suck_.

Michonne, on the other hand, just smirks and holds out her fist for Daryl to bump it gently with his own. They always got each other, him and Michonne, she's cool. (Way too cool for Rick.)

Carl doesn't care either way, but turns out to be a typical obnoxious teen because he starts yelling 'old people doing it' at the top of his lungs every time he walks in on Daryl and Paul with less than a foot of space between them. Which is a lot, since it turns out they both love kissing and touching and cuddling, and Carl has no concept of what doors are for.

Carol makes fun of him so mercilessly and for so long, Daryl escapes the Kingdom and hides all the way in Hilltop, in Paul's -- _their_ , it's theirs now -- trailer. The little ninja finds him under the covers hours later, cheeks still burning, and almost pulls a muscle laughing. Apparently, Carol _came to Hilltop to hunt him down_ , just like the cruel, horrible woman she is. She lets up on the teasing once she sees Daryl's face, though, and threatens Paul with bodily harm and a plucked-and-shaved chicken look only a little bit.

Ezekiel they have to stop from making a formal announcement in front of _all of Kingdom_ and organizing a freaking _feast_ in their honor, waxing poetic about warriors and war heroes and finding love in the darkest of times. He's enthusiastic and way too much for Daryl, so he retreats strategically. _Again_. (Carol can take Ezekiel. If she can deal with this daily, she's as bad as him. Good lord.)

Jerry lifts them both in a full body hug before they exit the theater, and no amount of squirming can get him to put them down. It's so embarrassing they both just kind of give up and hang there until he's done. " _Duuuudes_ ," is the only thing Jerry says, but he already conveyed his thoughts more than clearly. He and Ezekiel really were meant for each other. Daryl grumbles about kings and dramatics and damn fools under his breath, and drags a sniggering Paul out the door and back into the sunshine.

He lets the rest of his family find out naturally, not outright telling anyone but not hiding either. Every day, it's a bit easier to touch Paul when they're outside their trailer, to stand a bit closer, to not look away when his eyes inevitably get stuck on the elegant curve of Paul's neck when his hair is in a bun. He ain't doing a damn announcement and making a big deal out of it, that's for sure. There's no freaking way.

And so it's no wonder that Tara stumbles over them one day, in a typical soap-opera manner. They're in the woods, supposedly 'checking the traps' Daryl laid out but instead lazing about in a tree stand they found a few weeks ago. It's a flat platform about 10 feet off the ground, big enough for both of them to stretch out completely and with a ladder that can be pulled up, and thus as safe as it can be. Daryl is laying on his back and chewing on a piece of grass, humming and playing with Paul's hair absently. Paul's head is on his chest, body perpendicular to his, reading the latest of his many books. He quietly reads interesting parts of it out loud to Daryl, as he usually does, and the moment is picture perfect as few are these days. They don't notice Tara until she's already climbed the ladder and is standing above them, and then there's an entire performance from the three of them, with startled shock and swearing and yelling and incredulousness. She's knocked out of her boots, as the phrase goes, but soon realizes she can give them endless shit for this and is, horrifyingly, gleefully thrilled at the opportunity. Daryl regrets ever saying a single nice thing to her.

Aaron finds out when Daryl and Paul come to Alexandria for a few days, working on Daryl's bike in front of the garage, heads together. Daryl is showing Paul how to replace a part and doing a crap job because he can't take his eyes off the adorable frown of concentration Paul has on his face as he pokes at the machine warily. He lifts his head and Aaron is there, watching them quietly, eyes shiny with the sort of pain Daryl has seen before, in Tara's and Rick's and Maggie's eyes, among others. He nods at Daryl and continues walking without a word, probably on his way to pick up Gracie. She's been his lifeline since Eric, and seems to love him as much as he loves her. She certainly doesn't let anyone else put her to sleep, or feed her disgusting flavors of mushed food. Daryl turns his attention back to Paul, takes one of his hands and kisses its back, then its palm. Paul complains about the grease and the dirt and how this totally isn't his strong suit, what was that part called again? Daryl listens and snarks back and doesn't let go.

Tobin walks in on them making out, which is ironic because he turns out to be the awkward one. So, _so_ awkward. It's almost funny, how stiff and deer-in-headlights he gets around them at the beginning, but it seems it's just not knowing how to behave and fearing offending them, no actual judgment or disgust involved. He gets better over time, but since they don't really interact with him that much, it's kind of a side note.

Father Gabriel walks up to them one day and says that he knew from the beginning, since he first heard how they met and saw them interact; that it was obvious. Daryl tells him that, for a man of god, he's totally full of shit.

Siddiq, the newest addition to the group, shocks the hell out of them by saying he thought they were together since he met them. Something about their souls and compatibility and being aligned. Daryl just blinks at him, while Paul almost bounces on his heels excitedly and ropes the shy boy into an hour-long discussion on metaphysics and various definitions of soul according to different religions and philosophies. They don't even notice Daryl rolling his eyes and wandering away.

Rosita couldn't care less, truly and honestly. Daryl still isn't sure if she knows or not. If she does, it's probably because someone like Tara or Michonne told her. She never says anything to them, in any case, or changes her sour disposition in any way. Daryl might just like her best out of his entire family.

~*~

Paul tells him one evening that he doesn't really have anyone else to tell. Maybe Doc Carson, or Kal and Eduardo, but they're more friends by necessity than family. Maggie was it for him, and he's generally closer to Daryl's family than anyone at Hilltop. Daryl's heart aches for days after, making him drag Paul into surprise hugs and cuddles constantly, the man confused at the sudden clinginess but more than happy to participate.

Anyone else's opinion Daryl doesn't really give a shit about.

Let 'em come, if they have the guts.

~*~

The relationship-thing between him and Paul goes surprisingly well. As different as they are, they also turn out to be compatible in a lot of ways. And when they're not, they complement one another, each bringing something useful and all of their own to the table.

They both like going out on runs, being independent, exploring the outside world. Paul likes meeting people and bringing them in, finding other communities, while Daryl probably won't do it ever again, not after Dwight and all the trouble that came with him. Daryl is a scavenger and a hunter first, finding supplies and bringing in food with a practiced precision, and they work well together. Sending them both out usually means a good haul, whatever it is.

They're both fairly physical, and surprisingly juvenile when showing affection - which after some time comes as a shock to exactly no one. The number of times the residents of Hilltop and Alexandria eventually see them wrestle and tumble playfully, or chase each other around fields, trees, and trailers, is too high to count. Daryl stomping away, carrying a laughing, squirming Paul in a fireman hold becomes a very familiar sight to everyone.

They both like their alone time, now translated to quiet activities done in silence next to each other, Paul reading, Daryl fixing something or cleaning his weapons. They can often be found in Daryl's garage, Daryl having dragged an actual couch in there so Paul can be comfortable when he reads. Paul tackled him when he saw it, and they ended up using it for the very first time for much more pleasurable activities than reading.

They are also both _alone_ , a single person unlike any other, in very different ways. Paul in that 'alone in a crowd' way, people seeing only Jesus and never bothering to dig down to the actual person, with very human wants and desires and frustrations. Daryl is alone by his own choice, sometimes because it's been that way his entire life, sometimes because he feels like no one could ever understand him, sometimes because he feels he doesn't deserve it. His family are the only ones allowed to be near, and even that only at chosen times. It's easier, to be alone together. To _know_ that you can get a hug, a fond look, a silent companion, just by sitting next to another person. A person that is _yours_ and yours alone.

They like talking to each other, quite a lot. Well, mostly Paul, Daryl contributing with the occasional sarcastic comment, grunt or eye roll. It made Daryl uncomfortable at the beginning, Paul's desire to talk about everything under the sun. His obvious book smarts and constantly questioning mind were a bit intimidating, along with the interested and eager look he got when something caught his attention, one he leveled at Daryl every time he opened his mouth. But he soon realized that it wasn't a superiority thing, or a pompous bragging asshole thing; that Paul won't start looking down on Daryl one day because he hasn't got the same knowledge or experiences. Paul just genuinely loves reading and collecting knowledge, talking over ideas, and he especially loves hearing Daryl's opinion on things. Even when it was 'I dunno' or 'I don't care', it was another little piece of information on Daryl that he tucked away in his brain library.

And Daryl grows to love their chats as well as their silences, their tumbles, and their habits. He loves everything about being with Paul, even the bad bits and pieces.

He loves it all just as much as he loves Paul himself.

~*~

They have a bunch of firsts, the two of them, Daryl probably double the amount Paul has. But for all his 'experience', as he described it with a self-deprecating twist to his mouth the one time their romantic histories were brought up, Paul gets surprised by the smallest things. He doesn't even have to say anything, Daryl can read it on him clear as day.

It's the look on Paul's face when he gives him a book he talked about once, or when he makes the bookshelf for all the books spread around their trailer from some left over wood planks. It's the way he startles when Daryl offers a massage for the pulled muscle on his back, or when he brings him an Aspirin after a meeting during which Paul spent half the time rubbing his temples. It's the momentary flash of surprise every time Daryl knows a random fact about him, or figures out something that was glossed over or implied, or goes out of his way to make him feel better.

Daryl wonders who Paul dated before, if just looking at him and noticing what he needs and providing it, if it's in his power, is something shocking and unusual.

It takes months of grunting and poking and being annoying as shit until Paul stops holding back, stops feeding Daryl a washed-out, diluted, 'public' version of himself. Until he stops tamping down on his reactions and censoring himself before sharing an opinion, starts daring to ask after the smallest thing for himself. Until he starts touching freely and without hesitation. It's intense and fascinating, seeing Paul at his best, in full, vibrant color. It's what Daryl imagines capturing lightning within a bottle would look like. He wouldn't change one second of it.

Anyone who ever let Paul go, or made him feel as if he's too much to handle, is a damn fool.

~*~

The first time they get naked together, both of them completely bare in the low light of the trailer, it's... difficult.

Daryl has been anxious about his scars for a long time, even though Paul felt them already. He must have, there wasn't a place on Daryl's body his clever hands haven't touched or caressed, over or under the clothes. He never said anything, though, never asked, just looked at Daryl with sad eyes and kissed him harder.

It comes to a head one night when Daryl, frustrated by the situation and just wanting to get the awful story off his chest, abruptly takes his shirt off and turns his back to Paul.

Paul, as always, reacts differently than Daryl expected him to.

"Okay," he says carefully, in a tone that doesn't tell Daryl _anything_. He doesn't have time to panic, though. There's a rustle of fabric and then Paul's naked chest is pressed against his back, covering it in warmth and comfort, like a blanket. He wraps his arms around Daryl, lays his forehead on the back of Daryl's head, and holds on tight. "I felt them before, and now I know what they look like. Do you want to tell me how you got them?"

Daryl wants to, desperately, and he wants to never mention it again at the same time. He hates them, hates what they remind him of, hates carrying them around everywhere he goes. They make sure he can never forget who he truly is, where he comes from. Tears of helpless anger and frustration blur his vision. Why does this still have power over him, after so many years? Will he ever be fucking _free of it_?

"You don't have to," Paul continues in a low, steady voice. "You can keep it to yourself. I'll never ask if you don't want me to. I just want you to know that they aren't something to be ashamed of. You survived, whatever it was. You didn't let this ugly thing that happened to you turn you into a bitter, violent, angry man. You are good, and kind, and loyal, and caring. Whoever tried to break you didn't succeed. And now they never will. If you really think about it, it's like a giant 'fuck you' carved into your skin. Almost seems appropriate, you know. With your fondness for waving your middle finger around."

Daryl lets out a teary half-chuckle and turns around, leaning his forehead on Paul's. "Asshole," he says, eyes closed to stop the tears from spilling out. However crappy a day it is, no matter how awful or sad he feels, Paul always finds a way to make it better. It's like magic, only better, 'cause it's Paul.

Sliding his arms around Daryl, Paul takes advantage of the situation for some clothes-free exploring, tracing the exposed scars with light fingertips. "Your asshole," he shrugs, unrepentant. Then he mutters, "Hah, _your asshole_ ," like he's _three_ , and Daryl barks out a laugh and can't stop his mouth from blurting, " _Lord_ , I ain't ever gonna get over you, am I?"

They both freeze. Daryl can _feel_ Paul's eyes on his face, their too rapid breathing strangely in sync, and panic is a familiar friend by now. This is like admitting to having a notebook full of 'Mr. and Mr. Rovia' doodles, like having a lifelong plan for a house and two puppies _in the freakin' apocalypse_. It's saying 'this is it, you're _it_ for me, no one else will ever come close', and the feeling is fucking terrifying but saying it, out loud? Daryl's knees nearly wobble.

Just when he's ready to backtrack, try to make them both forget what his stupid mouth did without his brain's permission, Paul huffs out a breath and shakily whispers "… _me too_ ".

Relief washes over Daryl like a cool shower and he pulls Paul in blindly, finding his lips with a kiss-and-miss technique that has Paul shaking with suppressed sniggers. He knows the little asshole would probably move his head at the last second too, just to be difficult, but he loves kissing Daryl too much for that.

Later, Paul strips both of them of the remaining clothes and they spend the night like that -- kissing, talking softly, and worshipping every inch of each other's bodies.

Daryl never thinks about his scars the same way again.

~*~

The first time Daryl kisses Paul in public, in front of actual people - some of them friends, some family, some complete strangers - is when Paul comes back home from a long run.

He's been gone for almost a week, in a group that left just as Daryl came from his own run, the two of them having a mere minute to exchange a few words by the gate before Paul left.

The next day a cold snap came in, making all hunting excursions pointless and frustrating, and Daryl had nothing to do for the next five days but slowly go out of his mind with boredom and worry. He must've fixed every single engine, creaky hinge and generally broken thing he could get his hands on in Hilltop, forcing Maggie to kick him out of Barrington house because he wouldn't stop getting on her nerves.

He hears the commotion in the late afternoon and walks over a bit too quickly to be casual, but stays on the outskirts of the group surrounding Paul and the others. He can see fine from here, and they're all busy anyway. Paul notices him within seconds, of course, and untangles himself from about ten people that want to talk to him at the same time, distracting them with things to unload and bullshit assignments.

"Hey," Paul says quietly as he walks up to Daryl. The smile on his face is tender, his eyes roaming over Daryl's face and body restlessly, drinking him in, cataloging the differences. They haven't been apart for that long but it feels like ages. Daryl got used to him, it seems, his warmth in their bed, his presence at his side.

There is a longing deep inside Daryl's belly, a hook pulling him relentlessly to the little ninja in front of him, and it's not a choice, not really. It's the absence of one. There is _no world_ in which Daryl can stop himself from touching Paul, not after all this time, not when he's _right there_.

Daryl takes a single step forward and wraps his arms around Paul, lifting him up into his body, burying his head into his neck and mumbling 'missed you' in a thick voice. Paul clings back, whispers 'you too' so quietly Daryl barely catches it, and sneaks a tiny kiss under Daryl's ear.

And it's all Daryl can take, game over. He lets Paul's legs touch the ground and pulls back just enough to finally, _finally_ kiss him. Paul responds instantly, burying both hands into Daryl's hair and holding on, keeping him close, as if Daryl wants to be even an inch away from Paul.

Somewhere near there's a stifled squeak, a loud thud, someone hisses ' _I told you_ ', but Daryl doesn't care. Paul's back. There's very few reasons he'd willingly let go of him right now, and all of them are of the 'oh god we're all going to die' variety.

They kiss desperately, hungrily, hitting each other's buttons with effortless ease after months together, the emotions enough to make them shiver and gasp. They try to separate several times but sway back helplessly over and over again, and by the time they actually manage to unglue themselves, the truck is unloaded and no one is there anymore.

As far as coming out goes, it suits Daryl to a T. Ain't nobody's business but theirs, anyway.

~*~

The first time Daryl hits someone for Paul (well, for himself, too, but mostly for Paul) is also the first time he experiences someone hating him just because of who he loves.

It's some random dickhead at Kingdom, _Sean_ , who happened to be next to Daryl when he saw Paul approaching and thought Daryl would be a good partner for some casual cruelty and making fun of people who are a million times better than him. Daryl knows he looks like a redneck trash because he _is_ redneck trash, but this guy is that hey-it's-just-a-joke-lighten-up type of privileged jackass that _really_ gets on Daryl's nerves. He'll run his mouth off, say shit about anyone and everyone, look down on people who don't look or talk the same way as him. How he survived without someone feeding him to the walkers yet, Daryl has no idea.

And Daryl wouldn't bother if it was just him, he learned to ignore people running their mouths long ago, but it's _Paul_ this jackass here has something to say about, and he sees red. He can't even remember what was said anymore, he just remembers the hot and furious rise of his temper, quick and unstoppable like a flash fire.

"Shut the hell up," he growls, and when the dickhead _doesn't_ , he punches him straight in that perfect white teeth of his. The meaty sound of his fist meeting bone and flesh is so satisfying, Daryl would give up his bike for _a week_ if he could do it again.

Paul is there in a flash, putting himself between them, back to Daryl. The gesture takes away a tiny bit of his anger because even with everything Paul knows about him (Glenn, Dwight, all the times his rage got the best of him) he still trusts him at his back, trusts that he didn't hit this jackass without a reason.

"What's going on?" Paul asks Daryl, eyes trained on Sean.

"He just went off on me, what the fuck, what is your _problem_ , man?" the jackass spits along with a mouthful of blood, and Daryl would be right in his face if it wasn't for Paul's hand that lightly settled on his chest as soon as Sean opened his mouth.

"You got more shit to say, huh? Run your mouth some more? Fucking piece of shit, if I hear--"

The jackass finally catches a clue. " _What?!_ _You_? You and _him_? Hah, this is fucking _hilarious_ , I can't believe the big, bad redneck--"

"Consider very carefully what you're about to say," Paul says in a tone several degrees below freezing. Daryl can't see his face, but the jackass pales so fast he can track the progress of blood as it flows south.

Paul lets the silence drag a good ten seconds, none of them moving an inch, and then says, "Okay. Well, I'd suggest you go on your way and do whatever it is you do. And don't let our paths cross again unless you rethink some of your beliefs. I don't think that would turn out very well, now, would it?"

Sean sets his chin and grits his teeth mulishly, but doesn't actually dare speak up. Daryl bets there'll be some outlandish story and a pack of lies going around the Kingdom tomorrow, but he doesn't give a shit. If people don't know they can't trust a word out of this guy's mouth, there's nothing Daryl can do for them.

"Good. Goodbye." And with that, Paul dismisses him and turns to face Daryl, like there's nothing to worry about, like he's already forgotten what happened. Sean flushes red with humiliation and stomps off, but not without throwing a nervous glance over his shoulder first.

Paul waits until Daryl's eyes are back on him, and then raises an eyebrow in a move that spells trouble. "So, defending my honor, huh? Should I go find a tower and a dragon somewhere? Do I need to find pistols on the next run?"

Paul is on a roll now, talking like he's getting paid by the word, and Daryl just stares.

It's like someone flipped a switch. The man facing Daryl right now is a completely different person from the one who nearly made a grown man cry a minute ago, _without_ resorting to his ninja bullshit. If it wasn't downright scary, it'd be incredibly hot.

...oh, who is he kidding, it's incredibly hot anyway.

Daryl decides to shut Paul up the most efficient way he knows -- which is also the most fun way -- with his mouth.

It works.

~*~

There's a bunch of things Daryl didn't know before. About relationships, about compromise, about life as one half of a couple. He learns all of it happily, quietly, taking example from the kindness Paul shows him and everyone else.

There's bad days, of course. Bad nights, when one or both of them shake and cry and yell, when sleep is just a distant memory, when the dead come visit and won't go away.

They fight about big things and about stupid things, important things and total crap. But they learn from it. They learn not to isolate themselves, both of them. To talk to each other or their friends, to take the support offered.

And they always, always come back to each other.

~*~

Paul stops in front of Daryl, hands clasped behind his back, close enough for their chests to touch if one of them takes a deep breath.

"What?" Daryl says, what would be a grumpy grunt a few months ago now a slightly less grumpy grunt with fond eyes and a small smile.

"Nothing," Paul smiles back, wide and happy, and tilts his head up in the exact same gesture that preceded their first kiss.

Daryl looks at the little asshole he can't say no to for some reason and bites his lip to cover the curl he can feel forming.

Nah, just because he can't say no to Paul doesn't mean he has to let the man know that, or make it obvious. Still, best do something, he can't just ignore him.

Daryl leans down slightly and kisses one of Paul's cheekbones, then the skin just beneath his ear, then finally the tip of his nose. He leans back with raised 'there, satisfied?' eyebrows.

"Daryl," Paul says, and if it wasn't completely ridiculous for a man long past his teens to be pouting, he'd definitely be doing that.

Daryl smirks and leans back in. "What," he whispers challengingly from an inch away, smirk spreading into a full smile.

He caves at Paul's raised eyebrow because _of course_ he does, was there ever any doubt? There's nothing he wouldn't give his little ninja, not a single thing he wouldn't do for him.

Cupping smiling cheeks in his palms, Daryl presses kiss after kiss after kiss to Paul's lips, the flame in his chest still burning as bright as the first time they did this.

They stay wrapped around each other in the morning sun for a very long time.

~*~

They're good, the two of them, is the point. Way better than anything Daryl could've dreamed of.

They have their family, their friends, a safe place to stay, food to eat and water to drink, hot showers and clean clothes, a forest to disappear into when things get too much...

And they have each other. To love and to hold, to annoy and to amuse, to laugh, cry, to be there through shit days and great days, peaceful nights and nightmares. Even with all the pain and heartbreak, neither of them have any regrets. Things could have been better, their paths could have been easier, but if this was the journey they had to take to get to each other, it was worth it. Because they're here now.

And here is a really good place to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and lovely comments, I squee for every single one of them. I love you all. ♥


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